Beasts of men

“Where are we, Victor?” Jorge shouted, his voice swallowed by the relentless howl of the snowstorm.

Victor stood atop a snowy dune, cloaked in fur and leather, gripping a map that flailed wildly in the icy wind. “We’re close!” he shouted back, squinting into the storm. “Those mountains are less than a day’s trek. We’ll make it by sundown!”

Behind them, four other adventurers struggled through the blizzard, each footstep sinking deep into the tundra.

“We won’t last till midday in this gale!” Jorge warned. “We should turn back!”

“No!” Victor’s voice was fierce, cutting through the wind. “Onward, lads! Gold and knowledge await beyond those peaks!”

At the rear of the group, Ulag, a towering, brutish Tuskan, growled. “Ain’t worth dyin’ over.”

“Where’s your faith, gentlemen?” Victor challenged, eyes gleaming with determination.

“This place is cursed,” Ulag muttered, his gaze sweeping the desolate landscape. “The ancestors ain’t here.”

“No,” Victor agreed, “not any gods we know.”

“Fuck the gods!” laughed Ive, a short, long-bearded half-man trudging beside them. “No mortal should tread here. That’s why this part of every map is blank!”

“And that’s where the riches lie, my stout friend.” Victor paused at the bottom of the dune, his gaze fixed ahead. Bewildered, his breath caught in his throat. “In the blank pages of the maps.”

The storm seemed to recede, leaving only a whispering breeze behind them as the group stood in stunned silence. Before them, an ancient fortress lay nestled against a jagged mountain range, its walls battered by time and weather. Scattered across the icy plain were rusted weapons, tattered banners, and blackened bones, frozen in eternal stillness.

Victor smirked. “What did I tell you?”

Jorge, Ulag, and Ive grunted as they trudged toward the ruined fortress, passing the frozen remains of long-dead soldiers, their armor half-buried in the ice.

“What in all the hells happened here?” Jorge asked, his voice tinged with awe.

Ulag surveyed the scene, his eyes narrowing. “In all my years, I’ve never seen a massacre like this.”

Victor approached a tattered banner, cracking the ice from its wooden post. “Whatever it was, it happened long ago. Perhaps even in another age.”

They entered the fortress, its cold halls echoing with the faint whistle of wind. Deep within the bowels of the stronghold, they stumbled upon a massive door, larger than any mortal creation. Its face was an eerie grey-silver, bound in thick, blackened chains. There were no markings, no glyphs—nothing but a silent, foreboding presence.

“By my beard!” Ive barked, his voice bouncing off the stone walls.

“Quiet, dwarf,” Ulag grunted, smacking him on the back of the head.

Ive glared at him. “Was that necessary, you big green brute?”

“We don’t know what’s behind that door,” Jorge said, stepping between them. “Friendly or not.”

Ulag eyed the thick chains. “Think it’s meant to hold a giant?”

“A titan, more like,” Ive corrected, stroking his beard. “These doors make the gates of Nyr Budur look like cupboard doors.”

Victor paced back and forth, waving his torch near the door as if seeking some hidden mechanism, but found nothing.

“What do you make of it?” Jorge asked.

“A door with no markings, no signs of being forged,” Victor mused. “It’s as if it was never made for anyone to open.”

“Or to keep something inside,” Jorge added, his voice low. “Maybe we should leave.”

“Leave?” Victor scoffed. “We’ve only just arrived. There are secrets here—knowledge, gold...”

“And how do you plan to open it?” Jorge cut in. “It’s a dead end, Victor.”

“He’s right,” Ulag agreed. “Nothing we have can break these chains.”

“Well, have you tried knockin’?” Ive chuckled, banging his axe against the door. “Hello?”

The door shuddered, a deep, resonant boom echoing through the fortress. Ulag lunged forward, tossing Ive back, but in the scuffle, the dwarf’s forearm was cut.

“Bloody hell! What’s that for?” Ive snapped.

“Are you daft, or is your skull just too small for a brain?” Ulag growled, drawing his sword.

“I’ll show you, you sharp-toothed brute!”

Ive swung his axe at Ulag, and the two began to brawl, their steel clanging against the ancient stone walls. As Victor and Jorge tried to intervene, the door began to hum ominously. The blood from Ive’s wound snaked across the floor, as though drawn by some invisible force, winding its way toward the door. It slithered up the stone and into the crack between the doors, boiling as it went.

Jorge managed to pin Ive to the ground, but when he looked into the dwarf’s eyes, he saw only madness. Ive’s pupils had expanded, his irises drowned in blackness, and blood trickled from his eyes and mouth. Ulag knelt beside them, his face stricken with shock.

“Ive?” Jorge called, shaking him. “Ive!”

The dwarf snarled, biting Ulag’s hand. “He bit me!” Ulag roared, cradling his bleeding palm.

“Victor, what’s happening?” Jorge yelled.

Victor watched in horror as more blood seeped from Ive, drawn to the door like a tide to the moon. The dwarf’s body convulsed, his bones cracking and contorting unnaturally. Then, Ulag’s nose began to bleed, his blood too, flowing toward the door.

“By the gods...” Victor whispered.

The blood formed a key, hovering before the door as voices whispered through the air, the fortress shuddering. The key slid into the keyhole, turning with a deafening click. As the great doors groaned open, a pale mist poured out, wrapping around the fallen bodies of Ulag and Ive. Their lifeless forms melted away, becoming part of the twisted blood ritual that had taken hold.

“Victor!” Jorge shouted, but Victor stood transfixed, his eyes wide with dread.

“There’s no turning back now,” Victor said calmly, his voice hollow. The stairway behind them had vanished as if it had never been there. “We’re trapped.”

Jorge spun to face him, but Victor’s eyes glowed with otherworldly light, ancient glyphs swirling within them. Without warning, Victor plunged his blade into Jorge’s chest, turning the hilt. Jorge fell, his blood rushing to the door, completing the ritual.

As Victor collapsed behind a rock, trembling, the doors creaked open ever so slightly. A chorus of voices filled the air, their tone mocking.

“You pray to nothing, Lord Anderon,” a voice echoed, soft and sinister, like a chorus of men, women, and children all at once. “There are no gods here.”

Victor’s eyes widened in terror as a pale figure, shifting between forms—a woman, a child, a horned beast—emerged from the mist. The figure reached for him, a mocking smile on its lips.

“Victor, my darling,” it whispered in a voice familiar to him. “You’ve come home at last.”

“Elys?” Victor whispered, his voice trembling as he reached out to the figure now standing before him, cloaked in the familiar form of a woman. His fingers brushed the cold air between them. “Elys, I... I’m sorry.” His voice cracked with regret. “I broke my promise.”

The figure smiled—a cruel, knowing smile—and as its hand touched Victor’s, it transformed. Its features rippled like water, shifting into the fragile shape of a small boy. “Papa! Papa!” the child’s voice rang out, innocent and desperate. “When are you coming home, Papa?”

Victor staggered backward, his breath catching in his throat. Fear clawed at his chest. “No... no!” he stammered, shaking his head violently. “This isn’t real! This is some trick—some nightmare.” He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the visions. “This is a spell, an illusion!”

The figure's voice deepened into a guttural growl. “Look at me, mortal,” it commanded, its shape now warping grotesquely into a tall, horned monstrosity. Its shadow loomed over Victor, its pale, cold eyes—empty as death—boring into his very soul. “Look. At. Me.”

Victor’s eyes snapped open, his body frozen in place as terror gripped him. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the biting cold of the ruins. With trembling lips, he began to pray. “Jalin, I beg thee, free me from this nightmare... shield me from evil.”

The creature let out a booming, cruel laugh, its voice echoing through the desolate fortress. “I am more real than your gods of old.” Its laughter swelled, resonating with mockery. “You pray for salvation? You plead for release from this... nightmare?”

Suddenly, the figure materialized a sword from the void, its gleaming blade dark and unnatural. With a swift motion, it plunged the sword through Victor’s chest. He gasped, eyes wide in shock as crimson blood oozed from the wound, trailing up the blade like serpents, wrapping around the creature’s form.

The figure convulsed as the blood coursed over it, morphing into flesh—an unnatural symphony of skin, muscle, and bone. The grotesque transformation filled the air with sickening creaks and wet sloshes as the figure solidified into a new shape. Pale skin now stretched over a powerful, sinewy frame. Long, silvery hair cascaded down its back, and its face, youthful and smooth, was marred only by the soulless eyes—pits of endless darkness, glimmering faintly like distant, dying stars.

“Your gods have answered,” the pale man said softly, more to himself than to Victor. “I have come to end this nightmare.” He gazed down at his new body, running his fingers through his hair as if admiring the feel of his own rebirth. “By blood, I was bound,” he murmured, tracing his hand along his limbs, “and by blood, I am free.”

As the words left his lips, the bodies of Jorge, Ive, Ulag, and Victor began to dissolve, their forms melting into streams of blood and bone. The remnants swirled together like a dark ritual, twisting and coiling until they reformed into a grotesque throne. Bone and sinew made up its frame, while the flesh of the fallen adventurers draped over it as a sickeningly soft pelt. The pale man looked upon his new creation with a dark, satisfied smile.

Then, with a sudden shift, his gaze snapped toward a distant, unseen corner of the fortress, his lips curling into an eerie grin. “Ah,” he whispered, his voice dripping with malice. “I see you. The eyes that watch eternity.” He let out a chortle, the sound filled with menace. “I see you.”

Far away, across barren lands and forgotten valleys, an old shaman stirred from his deep slumber. His worn body trembled as he rose from his mat, beads of sweat glistening on his wrinkled skin. Purple light flickered dimly in his ancient eyes, which had witnessed more than most men could fathom. He wiped his brow, breathing heavily as he leaned on his staff for support.

The air around him felt charged with a presence—one that had been slumbering, hidden, for ages.

“They are free,” the shaman whispered, his voice quivering. He gazed out at the starless sky beyond the tent, the weight of the vision settling over him like a shroud. “The chains have broken. The blood has awakened him.”

The wind outside howled, carrying with it an ominous promise. The old shaman knew what was coming, and it sent a chill down his spine. The world would never be the same again.